


I spoke to you in cautious tones

by biblionerd07



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Self-Doubt, communication issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Jack just couldn't find the right words, +1 time Bitty understood anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I spoke to you in cautious tones

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Billy Joel's "And So It Goes", which I guess everyone considers a breakup, very sad song? idk, it's always sounded pretty hopeful to me. All of the main 5 things come from different tweets on Bitty's twitter.

Winter break is always a little strange. Jack’s parents’ house is quiet in general, but especially compared to the rambunctious Haus. At home, there are no spontaneous wrestling matches, no one screaming about possible ghosts that may or may not exist, no one climbing in his window to curl up in his bed without pants despite his loud protests.

And it isn’t that Jack doesn’t love his parents or being home. It’s nice, sometimes, to get a little solitude. He likes being able to hear himself think. He likes hearing the steady thrum of his heart, closing his eyes and breathing deep and just listening to the _nothing_. So often, everything around him is frenetic—the Haus, the locker room, the hallways of the buildings where he has classes.

The problem is when he gets too much solitude. Jack needs time to be alone with his thoughts, but if he spends too much time alone his thoughts will start to spin away from him. If he listens to his own heartbeat for too long it starts to race. He needs Shitty to punch him in the arm and give him a noogie, to distract him from the pit in his stomach that opens up when he thinks about the pressure on his shoulders. He needs Bittle to sing at the top of his lungs so he stops thinking about how small his breaths seem. He needs to throw Ransom on the ground and tussle with him to keep his hands from shaking.

There’s none of that at home. So by the end of the break, Jack is melancholy. It’s the only word for it. His brain is supplying him a highlight reel of his shortcomings, and he can’t turn it off. He knows he needs to keep up his workouts, and he does, but he feels lackluster; he just wants to sleep. He hides away from his parents because the thought of _talking_ makes his stomach clench. He can’t think of words.

But the break ends. Jack can’t help but wince at how loud everything is on the plane. There are so many people, and they’re jostling him and screaming into phones and he feels tired and a little fragile, raw, like he’s been sick. He can’t stomach the thought of the bus because it would just be more of the same, so he springs for a cab. It’s ridiculous, and part of him gives the rest of him an unimpressed look, but most of him is too busy ducking the driver’s edge-of-recognition glances to care.

Jack walks through the door of the Haus to a blast of sound, because Holster is recounting a story from his and Ransom’s drive over that he needs to tell Shitty at maximum volume, and Jack recoils a little. He goes to his room to unpack, but he’s unsurprised when Shitty clomps up the stairs not two minutes later.

“Brah, my uncle gave me a coupon to a hair salon for Christmas,” Shitty tells him, flopping onto Jack’s bed unceremoniously. “Can you fucking believe that?”

Jack laughs a little, quietly, and Shitty chatters away for the fifteen minutes it takes Jack to unpack. By the time he’s finished, Shitty has coaxed actual words out of him, and he’s starting to feel a little more human.

In the next two days, as everyone gets back to Samwell, Jack feels little bursts of gratitude for his friends. Shitty, of course, is the pinnacle; he never demands anything from Jack, but he keeps up a long stream of communication when Jack needs it most. But there’s also the way Ransom and Holster chirp him about his lack of pop culture knowledge, teasing that isn’t malicious or sharp. There’s the way Lardo doesn’t say anything vocally, but says enough with just her face to keep him out of his head. There’s the wide-eyed way Chowder asks him, breathlessly, if he had a good Christmas. There’s the way Nursey trips and falls, literally, at his feet, and then grins up at him and tells him it must be his skills that make him swoon. There’s the way Dex sees him muttering in French over his computer and asks if he needs help without any kind of exasperation or judgment.

And then there’s Bittle.

Bittle, who has music playing the minute he gets back to the Haus, who gathers everyone together all the time, who slipped cookies into Jack’s bag to make him feel better. Jack knows himself well enough to know the extra little swell of affection he feels for Bittle is a different type of feeling than he has for any of his other teammates, but he pushes that thought away. He’s sitting in the kitchen while Bittle waves his hands around and talks, and he can feel an actual _smile_ threatening to come out.

“I have no idea what I’m taking this semester,” Bittle says, all exasperation and cinnamon-dusted hands, and Jack thinks about sitting beside Bittle in a lecture hall, Bittle acting as a barrier between Jack and the people talking to him, Bittle patting his arm and agreeing to help Jack with the final project before Jack even asked.

“That food seminar was something, eh?” Jack hears himself say. Bittle blinks at him a few times, probably surprised that Jack had anything to add to the conversation when he’d been silent for the last twenty minutes.

“What do you mean?” Bittle asks.

Jack’s stomach twinges. What did he mean? He meant he liked taking a class with Bittle. He meant he liked sitting beside Bittle and seeing Bittle out of the corner of his eye. He meant he still thinks about the way Bittle would rest his chin on his fist and daydream sometimes in the middle of class and the sight of his hands as he doodled idly on his notebook.

But he can’t say that. Even if he could figure out how to string those words together—which he doesn’t think he could do, honestly, and especially not when he’s just been at home for weeks and hasn’t been speaking much in general and definitely not in English—it would be a terrible idea. He has a sudden flash of himself as a teenager, smiling easily and saying _guess I just like what I see, eh?_ in his best flirtatious tone, and his breath stutters away for a second.

“It was…” He swallows. “Different. You know?”

Bittle stares at him, looking almost suspicious, and Jack wishes he could go back and snatch his words out of the air. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. Bittle was happy to talk, even without a response from Jack. But Jack has to explain himself, because that’s what people do, and he doesn’t want Bittle to think he didn’t like the class; even aside from Bittle, it turned out to be an interesting class.

“It was fun,” Jack explains.

“Oh,” Bittle says, sounding surprised. “Yeah, it was.” He smiles at Jack, open and unassuming because Bittle’s never stingy with his smiles, and Jack hunches his shoulders and reminds himself that not speaking is better than saying the wrong thing.

  


Jack is out taking photos for his class, and he feels great. He wouldn’t say he feels giddy, really, but he feels calm. He likes the calmness better than feeling giddy, actually, because it’s so rare that he feels this stillness, this quiet in his brain. All he’s thinking of is the lighting and the composition of the photos he’s taking. The cold air is biting at his cheeks, but it’s pleasant; clean and sharp and grounding. His hands are steady as he raises his camera and lines up his next shot.

And then he lifts his head. And there’s Bittle, waving hello across the quad. Jack’s stomach swoops a little, the calm broken a little but not shattered; a slight crack, and not necessarily a negative one. Jack lifts his hand and waves back, and the cold makes him brave. He walks over to Bittle, steps over a snowbank, and lets a little smile lift the edge of his lips.

“Do you want coffee?” He asks. He cringes a little at himself. He meant to ask if Bittle wanted to _get_ coffee. He just made it sound like he already has coffee.

“Sure,” Bittle agrees with a smile.

“Um, okay,” Jack says. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. “So, I guess we should walk to Annie’s?”

Bittle’s smile is tinged with something else now—Jack wants to say it’s fond, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. Maybe it’s actually mocking and Jack’s brain is just going haywire. He wouldn’t be surprised. Except Bittle’s probably too polite to mock him to his face.

“Unless you got some coffee hiding up your sleeve,” Bittle chirps. Jack rolls his eyes and Bittle laughs at his own joke. The walk to Annie’s is mostly quiet; Bittle talks, but Jack feels so stupid for messing up what he’d wanted to say that he doesn’t want to say anything else.

Annie’s is more crowded than Jack anticipated, and he frowns a little. They have to wait in line for a while, and Jack gets up to the counter and doesn’t know what to order but doesn’t want to hold up the line behind him by deliberating—people are already looking at him, he can tell, and he doesn’t want _more_ people to look at him, and he certainly doesn’t want people to grumble about him—so he just orders a plain black coffee. Bittle shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you can drink it black,” he says, his sugary latte concoction in hand. Jack shrugs. He hates black coffee, but the thought of asking for cream and sugar after he ordered it black makes his stomach twist. And he certainly can’t tell Bittle that he doesn’t like black coffee, because Bittle is absolutely the type who would go up and ask _for_ him, and Jack isn’t sure which would be more humiliating.

Bittle catches Jack up on the latest gossip his mother told him, which, from what Jack can piece together, involves some woman in the church group getting the exact same hair dye job as another woman in the church group and the original woman getting annoyed. Bittle tells the story with the proper scorn it deserves, but he confides that his mother pretends to be annoyed but secretly loves watching the drama of the other women.

Somehow, that reminds Jack of the group of ducks he took a photo of before he saw Bittle, and it seems like a good contribution to the conversation.

“Oh, Bittle, I want to show you—” Jack starts to pull out his camera, but his elbow knocks into Bittle’s coffee. And the coffee splashes all over Bittle’s sweatshirt. Bittle’s mouth makes a little _oh_ of surprise. “Ah, chit,” Jack groans.

“Um,” Bittle says.

“Sorry,” Jack mutters, pulling napkins out of the little dispenser in the middle of the table and dabbing at Bittle.

“It’s okay,” Bittle says gamely. “I don’t have class for a while after this and I was gonna go back to the Haus anyway.”

Jack wants to bury his face in his hands. This is why he shouldn’t speak. This is what he shouldn’t try to socialize with other people at all.

“I’ll wash it for you,” he tries.

“Oh, no, Jack, it’s just fine,” Bittle says quickly. “I can wash my own clothes.”

“I—sorry,” Jack repeats.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bittle promises, but he’s sitting there in a soggy sweatshirt, wiping off his hands that are probably sticky now, and Jack wants to crawl into a hole and die. He hears the echo of a laugh, sees blue eyes roll and hears a fond _fuck, Zims, I hope you’re smoother in French_ , and his stomach clenches.

He doesn’t look at Bittle all the way back to the Haus and doesn’t say anything to him for the rest of the day.

  


It’s April, and they’re in the playoffs. This is the last time Jack will be in the NCAA tournament. It’s the last time he’ll play with his team. He’s got NHL teams after him, but he knows most of them are going to be watching these next games closely. They want to know if he can handle the pressure.

Jack can handle the pressure. He knows that. He’s pretty sure of that. He’s fairly confident of that. He’s…

Well.

He needs to get out of his room. It feels like it’s suffocating him, with the _be better_ poster glaring down at him, the photo of himself as a toddler with his father, his books stacked neatly on his desk, the papers his agent wants him to look at. It’s all pretty innocuous, mostly, but it’s all just _staring_ at him and he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he just needs _out_.

But it’s eleven pm. It’s dark, and it’s still cold out, especially at night, and two years ago he promised Shitty he wouldn’t go wondering off in a blizzard just because he needs to get out of his own head.

“Or at least,” Shitty had said, “not alone.”

But Shitty’s out with Lardo, maybe smoking up or maybe helping her with an art piece or maybe just watching a movie and mockingly talking over the lines, and Jack knows Lardo would understand—hell, Lardo would come be with him in a heartbeat if he asked—but this is the end of Shitty’s college career, too, and Jack doesn’t want to interrupt if Shitty’s finally getting himself together in terms of his relationship with Lardo.

So Jack goes to the reading room, out on the roof. He doesn’t go out here much; it’s mostly Shitty’s domain. But it’ll do, in a pinch, when he needs cold, clear air to clean out his lungs and make his head stop pounding.

He sits there, tipping his head back to look at the stars, and just breathes. He closes his eyes and pictures an empty rink, his quiet-thoughts arena. Every time a thought tries to crowd into the rink, he imagines checking it out of the way. His therapist had been a bit bemused when he revealed his version of the empty stage she’d suggested was a hockey rink, considering all his complicated emotions surrounding hockey, but she hadn’t said it was wrong.

“Jack?” Bittle’s voice floats out behind him. He takes another deep lungful of cold air before turning around.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Bittle responds, searching his face. “Are you alright?”

 _I’m fine_ is on the tip of his tongue. _Nothing big_ wants to come out. Even just _yeah_. But Bittle’s looking at him, so concerned, and Jack’s throat feels like it clogs up. He can’t say yes, but he can’t say no, either; he can’t explain himself. He shrugs instead of saying anything.

Bittle climbs out his window and sits down next to Jack with a little sigh. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, making himself look even smaller.

“Are you worried about the rest of playoffs?” Bittle asks quietly.

Jack rubs his finger against the rough shingles on the roof. “Hmm,” is all he can say. He _is_ worried about the rest of playoffs. He’s worried about the rest of playoffs and he’s worried about his parents coming to watch and he’s worried about the grade he’ll get on his photo project and he’s worried all the NHL teams he’s talking to will change their minds about him. But then he’s also worried they _won’t_ change their minds—he’s worried they’ll all want him, and he’ll have to choose. Maybe it would be easier if only one team decides they want him, so he doesn’t have to think about it.

“Or is it more about leaving Samwell?” Bitty’s face is open and earnest; he isn’t trying to get Jack to talk about what’s bothering him out of any kind of malice, like Jack inexplicably worries. He just wants to be a good friend.

“It’s, uh.” Jack swallows. He has to look away from Bittle’s face. “Everything.”

“Oh,” Bittle murmurs. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”

Jack huffs a little laugh. It feels like an understatement. But he also knows how ridiculous he is for feeling so much pressure. So he’s the captain of a college hockey team. It’s not like he’s a general leading men into war. No one’s life hangs in the balance. His issues are so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

They just don’t _feel_ so insignificant.

“It’s so strange to think I’ll be a junior,” Bittle goes on. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m a brand-new frog, all nervous y’all are gonna stuff me in a locker or something.”

That coaxes a sad little smile out of Jack, because he knows Bittle has reason to be worried about that kind of thing, reason from past experience that makes Jack’s chest ache a little to think about. “I’d never let anyone stuff you in a locker,” he promises.

Bittle laughs softly, then grins wide. “Just a hockey bag?”

Jack’s smile grows, turns from sad to actually amused. “You’re the one who made it a pregame ritual, eh?”

“Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle says, shaking his head. Then he looks at Jack for a minute. “You know, the next two games aren’t all up to you. We’ve got your back, Captain.” He smiles at the title, and Jack’s throat feels embarrassingly tight.

He should say thanks. He should explain to Bittle that sometimes he really does feel like the whole world’s on his shoulders. He should find the words to promise Bittle it’s not a lack of confidence in the rest of the team’s abilities.

But he can’t. His words all get stuck, like he can think of what he should say but can’t move his mouth the right way to actually say it. He opens his mouth and Bittle looks at him expectantly, but nothing comes out. He closes it and sighs a little.

Bittle stays out there with him for a while, not talking, and it’s nice, not being completely alone, but Jack can’t help but focus on how severely he’s lacking by not being able to just _talk_.

  


Jack signs with Providence. He takes a lot of heat for it, too, from the analysts on ESPN and random people on their Facebook statuses. People think he should have signed with a big-name team, or he should have gone to Montreal, or he doesn’t belong in the NHL at all. He can’t walk around campus without whispers following him, even more than usual, and it makes him feel cornered.

The boys all clap and cheer when he tells them, of course, and Shitty wraps both arms around him and pushes Jack’s face into his chest for a celebratory snuggle. It helps, really, to know they’re with him, they’re happy for him. Lardo glares at anyone who looks too long at him in the library, and Holster talks so loud it’s easy to block out the whispers.

He walks into the kitchen six hours after the news of his signing broke to find Bittle perched on a stool, looking morosely at the oven. It’s a good thing Bittle’s birthday isn’t too far away now, because the oven is, apparently, on its last legs, so the new one they’re getting him will be even more poignant. Lately the oven’s been shutting off in the middle of Bittle baking, and Jack doesn’t appreciate it. He doesn’t mind not having the temptation of pie and cookies and biscuits, but he does mind that look on Bittle’s face.

“No baking today?” Jack asks, trying to sound sympathetic. Bittle shrugs sadly.

“No,” he says mournfully. “Maybe I need froyo.”

“Worried you might die if you don’t get enough sweets, eh?” Jack teases lightly. Bittle rolls his eyes.

“Losing your oven calls for sugar therapy, Mr. Zimmermann,” he defends himself.

“Alright, let’s go,” Jack says.

“ _You_ want froyo?” Bittle asks, raising an eyebrow.

Now Jack feels a little foolish, and the bottom of his stomach drops out a little. Admittedly, he’s not exactly the poster child for sweet treats. He hadn’t been thinking; he just wanted to make Bittle feel better. But he can’t _say_ that.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, which is a statement he’s kind of starting to mean broadly but knows he’ll never find the words to explain. Bittle tilts his head, assessing Jack, and Jack wills himself not to turn red.

“Okay,” Bittle says. “Let me get my shoes.”

They walk two blocks to the Superberry and Jack can’t help but wince at how many people there are. It’s so loud in there. Everyone’s chattering without a care in the world, and there’s music blaring through the speakers on top of that. He sees people look at him, feels their eyes on the side of his head, notices the way they tip their heads close together and glance at him as they talk.

His heart starts to beat faster. What are they saying? Are they talking about him signing? Are they wondering why he’s here with Bittle? Is there something on his shirt? He wants to turn around and go home, where no one will whisper about him unless they’re deliberately chirping him, and then the whispers will be purposefully loud enough for him to hear. The weight of people’s eyes on him is one of his least favorite feelings in the world.

But he agreed to come with Bittle—he _offered_ , not even like he just went along with plans already in motion—so he obediently fills his cup with fruit sorbet and tops it with more fruit and studiously does not look at the little cookie bits that would taste delicious.

They wouldn’t be as good as Bittle’s cookies, anyway.

“Oh, gracious, they got a bunch of new flavors,” Bittle agonizes. He hovers between _Island Mango_ and _Georgia Peach_. Jack can see his dilemma; Bittle feels obligated to try anything that even alludes to Georgia and subsequently judge it harshly for being not Georgian enough. “Well, I guess I’ll have to get both,” Bittle says, like it’s a great hardship and he doesn’t get two flavors almost every time he gets froyo anyway.  
  
Jack bites down on his tongue before he can mention sugar and fat contents that file through his mind automatically, clamps down on himself before he can think about maximum cardiovascular condition for peak performance.

“At least it’s twice the protein,” he says instead, and Bittle rolls his eyes long-sufferingly, only glancing guiltily at Jack once as he loads his cup with fruit and cookie bits and gummi bears and those weird little gel balls Jack hates because of the texture.

They get to the register and Bittle sets his cup on the scale. Jack puts his on, too, and muscles Bittle gently out of the way. Bittle gives him a look.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I’m paying for our froyo,” Jack says, resolutely not blushing as he waits for the bored girl to read off his total.

“$6.14,” she says.

“Jack, mine is probably four dollars and yours is only two,” Bittle protests.

“I got it,” Jack says.

“You don’t need to,” Bittle tries. _I want to_ hovers behind Jack’s teeth. _I want to buy you every drop of froyo in this store. I want to take you to a real island so you can eat fresh mangoes. I want this to be a date._

“It’s on me, Bittle,” he says, as close as he can possibly get to saying what he actually wants to say. But then he’s worried that even that’s too much; Bittle will know, the girl behind the counter smacking her gum will know. He has to add a joking, “I think I’m good for it.”

Bittle tips his head, smiling, and murmurs, “Thanks.”

They find a table and Bittle talks about the oven, frets about the lack of pies he’s baked in the past few days, and Jack never does manage to tell Bittle everything he wants.

  


Spring C is rapidly approaching. Shitty and Lardo are getting cozier and cozier, and Jack knows Spring C is where a lot of people make the final leap with people they’ve wanted for a long time. He could do that, too. Bittle’s excited for Spring C; Jack could capitalize on that. Not in a sleazy way. He’s pretty positive Bittle would be on board.

“Do you think the lacrosse bros are going to try to top our kegster again?” Bittle’s asking Ransom and Holster, fingers stained purple from the juice of the blueberries he’s mashing up for a pie. He keeps giving the oven pleading looks, like maybe if he looks sad enough it’ll stay heated up for the entire time it takes to bake his pie.

“They can try,” Ransom scoffs.

“No one can top our kegsters,” Holster agrees, holding out a fist for a bump.

“I heard kegster!” Shitty yells as he walks into the kitchen. Jack knows he was in class not even ten minutes ago, yet he’s already down to his Tweety Bird boxers. “We planning one for Spring C?”

Jack doesn’t want another kegster. He’s getting better at coming down for them, and not even just to prowl around making sure the frogs (and Bittle) aren’t pickling their livers and threatening their brain function, but if he can turn Spring C into something more for him and Bittle…he doesn’t want a kegster taking over.

“I don’t know,” Ransom says thoughtfully. “Spring C is usually a day just for us bros.”

“Valid point,” Shitty allows.

“Though it _is_ your last year,” Holster points out. Jack’s stomach drops a little and Bittle sends another mournful glance at the oven.

Shitty waves a hand around. “I would rather have the most epic Spring C with just our team than worry about my kegster legacy.”

“Bro.” Holster presses a hand to his heart. “That’s noble.”

“Peak broness,” Ransom agrees.

Shitty gives a little bow. “I do try to live my life at peak broness at all times.”

“Do y’all already know what you’re wearing?” Bittle asks as he weaves more crust on the top of the pie.

“I wear the same thing to Spring C every year,” Shitty says, unconcerned. He pops a blueberry into his mouth and narrowly escapes getting his hand slapped.

“Rans will pick something ‘swawesome for me,” Holster says.

“Someday you’re going to have to start picking your own clothes,” Ransom admonishes.

“Well, I seem to remember _someone_ saying I wasn’t _allowed_ to pick my own clothes anymore,” Holster shoots back.

“Why don’t you ever pick my clothes for me?” Nursey asks Dex, who looks at the ceiling and sighs.

“Farmer and I are wearing matching clothes,” Chowder confesses, a little shyly. Shitty wraps an arm around his neck and ruffles his hair.

“Your relationship makes me want to barf, brah,” he says fondly. Chowder looks worried, so he adds, “In a good way.”

“Why, Bits, you worried about your outfit?” Holster asks. “Rans can pick yours, too.”

“I do not need Ransom to pick my outfit, no offense Ransom,” Bittle says indignantly. Ransom just shrugs. “Lardo and I are going shopping when she gets out of class.” He glances dubiously at the oven. “Let’s hope this pie is actually done by then and Betsy doesn’t give up the ghost for real.”

Chowder grins big and Jack gives him a look. They’re all sworn to secrecy, but Chowder’s widely regarded as the weak link in this surprise chain because he’s too enthusiastic about everything and loves Bittle too much. Chowder makes a sheepish face and focuses back on the computer screen in front of him.

“You actually coming to Spring C this year?” Shitty asks Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack says, praying everyone doesn’t freak out and make a big deal out of it.

“Getting wild in your old age, eh?” Ransom laughs.

“And what are you going to wear?” Holster asks.

“You may _not_ wear a Samwell hockey shirt,” Bittle cuts in quickly. “I know you love representing the team but I think there may be things happening we don’t want our team’s name associated with.”

Holster makes an alarmed face. “My goodness, dear Eric, what kind of shenanigans do you plan on getting into?”

“You’ve always seemed so innocent,” Ransom gasps.

Bittle rolls his eyes. His cowlick’s sticking up at the back of his head and Jack wants to lean over and press it down, run the hair through his fingers and feel if it’s as soft as it looks.

“Whose shoulders are you sitting on at Spring C, Bittle?” He asks instead of doing that. Bittle shoots him a betrayed look.

“No one’s!” He insists. “I don’t _need_ to sit on anyone’s shoulders! Just ‘cause y’all are huge doesn’t mean I’m really that small.”

Jack flounders a little. He’d meant it to be an opening to a conversation, where Bittle said he hadn’t asked anyone yet and Jack offered his shoulders. Just because…well, Holster’s already offered up his shoulders to Lardo, and Jack’s not the tallest one left, but…

“And Zimmermann shows up with the chirp,” Shitty says appreciatively. Jack opens his mouth and then closes it. He hadn’t meant it to be a chirp at all. Bittle’s already moved on, talking about which mall he and Lardo are going to, and Jack can’t figure out a way to bring the conversation back around. Plus, now it would seem out of left field; everyone would notice and would undoubtedly have things to say. They would have anyway, even if things had gone according to his plan. He didn’t think this through enough.

Jack ducks his head and listens to everyone else talking excitedly about the band that’s playing at Spring C—a band Jack’s never even heard of, of course—and slinks away as soon as he can before he says anything else ridiculous.

  


It’s graduation day. It’s graduation day and Bittle’s got the most awful fake-smile pasted onto his face and Jack thinks he knows exactly how Bittle feels because he feels the same way. He doesn’t want this to be happening. He doesn’t want to leave Samwell.

He’s off to play in the NHL, and it seems awful not to be completely ecstatic about it. It’s everything he’s been dreaming about since he was nine and realized someday he’d have to get a job. It’s what he’s spent over a decade agonizing over.

But the tradeoff is leaving behind the safety of his friends, his team, the familiar routine of practice and class and road trips and games. Coffee at Annie’s and homework at Norris; leaning over to look through the two open bathroom doors to Shitty and Lardo sitting on his floor listening to music while they’re completely stoned; wandering down the stairs and finding a dish he’d mentioned once in passing cooling on the counter.

And Bittle.

Jack feels nervous about leaving all the rest of it, and he’s sad to leave his friends, of course, but there’s something different about leaving Bittle. His chest hurts when he thinks about waking up every morning and not eating breakfast with Bittle.

Jack’s been doing his best to tramp down on those feelings. He’s leaving, and Bittle will still be in school, and Jack’s a mess, anyway, so it’s not like they could have any sort of… _relationship_. But every day leading up to graduation has made it harder and harder to hide his feelings; he’s been looking just a little too long, smiling just a little too wide.

And now Jack’s in his cap and gown and his parents are smiling at him and he and Shitty are posing for ten thousand pictures, and there’s Bittle, off to the side, trying to dredge up a brave face and not quite managing it.

They make their way to the luncheon, a huge pack of people pushing through the throng, and Jack’s swept up with his parents on one side and Shitty’s grandparents on the other, and his stomach drops with absolute panic when he thinks about the fact that he’s going to sit at a table and eat salad or something and then he’s going to put his last box in his parents’ rental car and drive up to Providence.

Everyone finds a seat at the table, and Jack’s lungs start seizing up. He can’t do this. He can’t leave. He can’t move to Providence. He can feel himself sweating.

“Jack?” His mother murmurs, closer than he’d realized she was, and he jumps. “Everything alright?”

“I—I’m—” He swallows hard, trying not to gasp for air. He holds his breath for a ten-count. He looks across the table and sees Bittle looking down at the table, face overcast, not even on his phone, and loses the fight against his rapid breaths.

“Take a deep breath,” his mom coaches quietly.

“Maman,” he chokes out. “I can’t…”

She tips her head to the side and follows his eyes across the table to see that he’s staring at Bittle. She raises her eyebrows a little and his face burns. “Mmhmm,” she says. “You’re leaving soon.”

He nods, fast, hoping she won’t say anything else. This isn’t the kind of conversation he wants to have in the middle of a garden luncheon surrounded by the team and Shitty’s family, having some kind of anxiety attack on top of everything else.

“Well?” She says, looking across the table at Bittle and then back at Jack, one eyebrow arched expectantly. “Déguidine, eh?”

“What?” He asks, trying to whisper. It’s hard with the gasping.

She smiles gently at him. “You don’t want to leave things unsaid, no?”

“But…” He blinks a few times, so shocked by what she might be saying he stops worrying about his breathing long enough that it regulates itself. “But I…”

“Jack,” she says. “You care about him. I see that. Your father sees it, even. Things can work out if you try. But you have to tell him.”

Jack stares at her, a little dazed. She pats his hand. “When we go back to get the rest of your things will be a good time.”

He doesn’t remember much else that happens during the luncheon, truth be told. He sees his mother lean over and whisper something in his father’s ear, and then his father gives him a knowingly look, shooting a glance at Bittle, and nods. Jack gets the sudden impression that they’ve had multiple conversations about this while he wasn’t around. That kind of thing would normally make him feel uncomfortable and anxious, but neither of them look upset about it.

And then they’re all heading back to the Haus. Bittle’s smiling at something the frogs are telling him, Nursey accidentally smacking Chowder in the face with a wide arm gesture, and Jack feels like his whole brain stops. What on earth is he supposed to say to Bittle? How do you tell someone the thought of living without them makes you need to put your head between your knees and hyperventilate?

Everyone’s gathering in the living room, because Jack is leaving. It’s time for him to say his goodbyes, grab his duffel and one last box, and drive away. His heart is hammering so hard it’s almost painful. The panic hits him again, with everyone waiting to hug him and say goodbye, and he slips into the kitchen.

Bittle’s there.

Jack feels a little calmer, like maybe part of him knew Bittle had to be in here and steered him here on purpose. Plus, standing in the kitchen watching Bittle assemble butter and flour and sugar and fruit, oblivious to Jack standing there in the doorway, is soothing in its familiarity.

“Bittle,” he says, making Bittle jump.

“Guess that’s the last time you’ll sneak up on me like that,” Bittle says. His voice is falsely bright, almost shrill in how upbeat he’s trying to be, and Jack’s throat closes up. _The last time_. Jack can’t take this.

“Bittle, I…” Jack trails off, eyes darting around the kitchen. He can’t look at Bittle. If he looks at Bittle he’ll either say nothing at all or he’ll suddenly drop every word he’s been holding, drown Bittle in a flood of words describing his feelings and freak him out.

“You’re leaving?” Bittle asks quietly, turning away from Jack. “Time to say goodbye?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Bittle nods, still turned away, and then he takes a breath deep. Jack watches his back expand with it. He turns around, wiping his hands on a towel, and he’s trying to force up a smile again, but Jack can see the way he’s biting his lip hard.

“Bittle, I want to tell you…” Jack swipes at the sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I—you’re probably my best friend, you know? After Shitty, maybe.”

Bittle blinks hard against the tears Jack can see starting to well up in his eyes. “You’re probably my best friend, too, Jack.”

“I just—I don’t want to…umm…” Jack steels himself. “I’m not just leaving and I’ll never see you again, eh? I can’t. I don’t think I’d make it. If I couldn’t see you again.” Jack hates those half-sentences, the false starts, and he wishes he could just get the words he wants to say out right.

“Jack,” Bittle murmurs, coming closer and hugging Jack. Jack closes his eyes for a second, breathing in Bittle’s deodorant and the smell of flour that lingers around him. “I can come visit you in Providence, too. It’s not so far.”

“I’ll miss you,” Jack says. He’s trying to will Bittle to understand what he means, because he just can’t figure out how to say _I care about you in a way that’s different than how I care about my other friends_.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Bittle responds, voice thick. And then he pulls away from Jack, and Jack stands there with his arms still open for a second, like maybe Bittle will come back. Bittle takes another deep breath and pulls on another smile. “You have fun, you hear? Don’t be too serious and stoic out there.”

Jack just stands there for a second, heart pounding, trying to force himself to say what he means, but the words aren’t forming and his parents are waiting and the whole team is in the living room and someone’s going to come in soon, probably, to see what the holdup is.

“Okay,” he says around the lump that’s forming in his throat. “I, uh. Okay, Bittle. I just meant that…” Bittle smiles at him, and Jack’s words cut off. Maybe Bittle knows what he’s trying to say and doesn’t want him to say it. Maybe he’s being purposefully oblivious so Jack doesn’t embarrass them both.

His hands and feet feel numb. Maybe he waited too long. He missed his chance. He takes a step back, away from Bittle, and nods a few times.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Well. Uh, text me when you get home to Georgia tomorrow, eh? So I know you got there safe.”

Bittle looks at him for a minute, and Jack swallows hard again and starts to turn away. He feels sick to his stomach.

And then Bittle’s grabbing his arm.

“You want to make sure I get there safe?” He asks, breathless.

“Of course I do,” Jack says slowly. Bittle stares at him for a beat longer, and then he puts a hand on either side of Jack’s face and pulls him down for a kiss. Jack’s mouth, luckily, catches up faster than his brain, and he’s kissing back while his head is still reeling and trying to figure out what’s going on.

Finally, he pulls back. “I’ve been trying to tell you I wanted that for weeks now,” he pants. Bittle shakes his head.

“I didn’t get it until just now.”

Jack runs a hand through Bittle’s hair, smoothes down that cowlick that he always stares at. “How’d you get it? I couldn’t say it.”

“You’re always checking up on everyone, but I’ve never heard you tell anyone to text you when they got home. I mean, Ransom and Holster have road tripped before and you didn’t say that. My mama always said making sure someone got home safe is the best way to show you care about them.” He leans his body against Jack. “I thought it was just me feeling this way.”

“No, it’s definitely been me, too,” Jack assures him. “For a long time.”

Bittle’s whole face lights up with a smile bright enough that it makes Jack’s chest ache a little, but it’s a different kind of ache than the one that’s been plaguing him for weeks or months while he watched Bittle and wanted him. It’s a good ache. He bends his head and kisses Bittle again. He doesn’t foresee ever not wanting to do that.

“I still have to leave,” he says regretfully.

“I know,” Bittle sighs. “But it’s different now. It’s only forty minutes. And just…” He’s blushing a little. “Knowing makes a difference. Makes it easier.”

Jack looks down at him, pink-cheeked and freckled, a little dust of flour on his shirt, and thinks about the fact that they’re standing in the kitchen holding onto each other, thinks of visiting each other and kissing a lot more, actually being _together_.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “It makes a lot of things easier.”

He’s not under any illusions that it’ll make everything easier. He knows there will still be times when he can’t figure out the words to say what he wants or how he feels; there will still be times when he _can_ find the words but he’s afraid to say them.

But maybe, every once in a while, even when his words get stuck and he can’t say what he wants to, Bittle will be able to read between the lines and understand him anyway.


End file.
